Serial Killers in Heat
by Hannibal the Animal
Summary: What is the mating dance between two accomplished serial killers? An AU Peter/Liv fic. WARNING: Sex, death, murder, violence
1. ONE

"Is that them?" Agent Farnsworth whispers from behind the two-way mirror.

She had been only a greenhorn when she'd been put on the case of the Mad Scientist Murders, twenty-six and just a junior agent. Now she was thirty-seven with far more experience than most agents her age had, one of the FBI's top serial killer specialists.

"Yeah, that's them," Agent Francis murmurs, studying the pair who sit side by side.

Agent Scott, who's treated this case as The One, stands silently behind them. He's glaring at the two sociopaths, obviously not happy that they're in a room together but Agent Farnsworth had insisted that the killers functioned as a single unit, not two individuals and thus shouldn't be separated. The resulting interaction between the murders was fascinating to say the least.

The woman is blonde and looks like the quintessential suburban soccer mom with her pink cardigan and chinos while the man looks every part the role of a MIT chemistry professor in a tweed suit. Handcuffed in the interrogation room with one agent supervising them silently, Mr and Mrs Bishop seem to be amicably discussing what leftovers they ought to reheat for dinner. He's requesting pot-roast while she seems to be more interested in turkey meatloaf. For two people being charged with multiple homicide and serial killing, they are remarkably calm.

All three Agents flinch slightly as Mrs Bishop lets out a delighted laugh at something her husband said, her head tossing back slightly as her eyes close. Mr Bishop looks at her with an amused smirk and when they lean in for kiss, Agent Scott seems to have had enough.

* * *

It was the night he took her to the opera when Peter realised he loved her. He's bought tickets to one of the private box seats for her birthday, desperately trying to impress her and maybe get laid. They've known each other for only a few months, but he's never felt this way about anyone, and while he feels ridiculous for letting himself feel these all too human feelings, Olivia Dunham enchants him. She's so clever, so beautiful, so… well, he knows exactly what she is, but tonight he wants to be absolutely sure.

He's never seen her in casual clothes—she always wears a suit—but tonight is the first time he's actually seen her dressed up. A black dress that shimmers and stays close to her body while her long hair has been pulled up into some form of chic coiffure to expose her beautiful neck. He doesn't know much about women's fashion, but he knows he likes what he sees.

The seats he's bought give a perfect view of the stage and the opera tonight is some Germanic tragedy, where everyone dies in the end. He can't understand a word the people are singing, but she knows the language, so in the end it works out pretty well—he's there to watch her, after all. And how she performs! Her head cranes and her lips part slightly, her eyes moving quickly across the stage and her long fingers grasp at her clutch. She's comfortable, relaxed, and slowly being coaxed into the state he wants her in, her _x factor_.

The opera ends a few hours later and he sees she's satisfied as he opens the door to the passenger side of his car. Perfect. They're quiet as they ride through the streets. His throat is dry and he can hear the humming in his ears that means _'it's time'_. It is time and he knows that this is the ideal opportunity, the ideal night to show her what he is. He can see she has what it takes and he's willing to see if she wants to join him in his hobbies. Not just willing…but wanting her to join.

"Hey, I have something I needed to do." He doesn't look at her but his hand finds hers. "I thought maybe we could do it together…?"

In his peripheral vision he can see her turn his way. "A birthday surprise?"

He nods. "A surprise, yeah."

"I'm hard to surprise," she warns and he grins.

"Well, we'll just have to see how well I do, then."

The silence returns, but this time it's filled with electricity, adrenaline, and a delicious tension. Her fingers are strong, much stronger than he'd imagined they could be and he takes a split second to speculate how steady her grip would be driving a knife through someone's chest. He inhales sharply at the thought and can't help but smile.

The drive to the birthday surprise is completely done by the autopilot part of his brain while the rest of his mind is spent quickly organising and planning. He can hardly believe they're there when they pull up into the dark back alley of a housing sect. parked immediately between a dumpster and two trashcans.

He reaches into the back seat and hands her a pair of clean and neatly folded socks with a pair of construction boots he often wears himself when he _'works'_. "You should take your nice shoes off and put these on instead."

"What are we doing?" she whispers as she unhesitatingly obeys.

He points to the house across from them. "We're going to kill the woman inside."

She doesn't laugh or look scared, just curious.

"Oh. Is she an ex?" she asks as she laces the boots up.

He shakes his head as he finds the tool bag filled with the supplies he uses. "No. C'mon."

With a practiced silence, he opens his door and steps out into the alley way, wondering if his dress shoes will be appropriate for the night's activities, but figures they're too far into it to back out now. Olivia gets out of the car quietly, though she still makes some noise as she shuts the passenger—it's no problem though, he can teach her the proper way to do it.

She follows behind him as they skulk through a tall back gate to enter the property of Miss Sylvia Ladner. Very carefully with the spare key he'd found two days ago while he scouted the property, he unlocks the back door and they step inside. The mudroom of this woman's house has a large mirror surrounded by photos of dogs and the beach and her smiling with a boyfriend, but Peter knows she's alone here. She'd only just moved to Boston a few months ago and he feels a little bad for targeting her so soon before she'd had an opportunity to fall in love with the city, but he has a yearly quota to fill and she's a very easy mark.

"Now, this is the part where you have to be really quiet," he whispers to Olivia and leads her to the mirror. "Wait here."

"Okay," she whispers back.

He hurries into the kitchen and rounds a corner as if he's living her all alone, but in actuality he's watching her in the reflection of the microwave's glass door, making sure she isn't going to call 911 or run, but she just stands there, studying her hair in the mirror, adjusting her dress' neckline and inspecting the makeup on her face.

'_She wants to look good for the kill!'_ his father's voice hisses in his ear.

He agrees and _wants_ her to look good while she does it. He leaves the kitchen to sneak off to the woman's bedroom and there she sleeps, just as he knows she would be. Using a silk scarf he knows she has hanging on the back of her bedroom door, ties her hands up to the headboard and carefully gags her with a sock he finds on the floor. He sets his tool bag down while the woman struggles on the bed a bit, but he ignores her and returns to the mudroom where Olivia waits.

He takes the beautiful blonde by the hand. "Okay, come with me."

Peter leads her across the dark and quiet house to the bedroom where their victim waits, looking at them horrified. Olivia looks at the woman with curious indifference and then turns to him.

"What are we doing now?"

"We have to kill her. I wanted you to do the deed with me."

To his surprise, he sees her blush. Her hand pulls from his and he feels his heart race at the shy smile she gives him. The woman on the bed continues her muffled screams, trying her best to thrash around as tears roll down her face. Each one looks like a diamond and he wishes for a moment that he could see his Olivia wear them.

The blonde moves over to the bed and stands over the scared victim, popping her knuckles as she studies the woman in her nightgown. "So are we stabbing or shooting her?"

He finds his bag of tricks and quickly begins to work near the propane heater in the room. "Explosion."

She makes a face. "Why an explosion?"

He begins assembling the small bomb he's brought with them. "She's an assistant."

She looks down at him working. "Oh."

He gently touches her arm and promises, "I'll explain later."

The smile returns, looking giddy. "Okay."

When she crouches next to him, he shows her the proper way to place the wires he's pulled out of old electronics he's bought at yard sales. "Now just put this in here…"

She follows his instructions. "Right…"

"And set the timer over here…"

"Okay."

He takes her by the hand and grins boldly. "And now we need to go back to the car!"

They hurry out of the house, their footfall not heard by any of the sleeping residents in the nearby houses. Peter is careful to start the vehicle quietly and they drive slowly out of the alleyway so as not to draw attention to themselves.

She peers over the back of her seat. "We aren't going to watch?"

"No, not in a neighborhood. When you do it at an apartment building, you can go across the roof." He glances over at her. "Want to do it like that next time?"

"Yes."

They pause at a stop sign and he looks both ways before continuing. "Uh, did you want to come back to my place for coffee?"

"That would be nice," she says softly.

"I've got Bob Dylan, too. I know it's not the opera…"

"That would be nice," she repeats.

They hold hands the rest of the way to his town house and when they arrive, they go through the motions of polite coffee drinking and Bob Dylan listening, but finally they can't stop sidestepping one another at the kitchen island and he pulls her in for a deep kiss.

"It was a good birthday surprise," she whispers when they finally part.

"Glad you liked it." He kisses her along the neck and across her shoulders. "I want you."

He leads her to his bedroom and in the dark of the bedroom, they begin to strip off their clothes; he lets out a laugh as he hears the boots he'd lent her fall to the floor. She stands in front of him, her body's curves highlighted by the soft colours of his laptop's screensaver.

"You'll be on bottom and I'm going to choke you," she instructs, pushing him back onto his bed.

While he's never had a woman request being on top, he's also never been involved in anything that could remotely be construed as 'kinky'. It's something he's taken precautions with so that ex-girlfriends can't run to police when the cops ask for information about deviants related to their cases, especially the ones involved with serial killing. He wants to keep his involvement with the law at a minimum.

That and he doesn't like being out of control.

"Choke me?"

Her cheeks flush in embarrassment. "If you don't want to—"

"I'll try anything at least once." He's nervous, but outwardly remains calm. "Did you want a tie or belt…?"

She straddles him. "I'm going to use my hands."

She takes a moment to position her hands around his throat, her fingers loving trace his Adam's apple, caressing the cartilage through the skin. At the base of his neck her hands find their place and her eyes flit up to his. He can't look away as she begins to squeeze gently; it's terrifying and exciting at the same time.

"You seem pretty good at this," he says hoarsely as the euphoria generated from lack of oxygen starts to take hold.

She nods and smiles as she begins to ride him. "Thank you."

"Did you want to go harder? I wouldn't mind," he wheezes, wanting to impress her.

"I wouldn't want to hurt you," she admits and a devilish quirk on her lips appears.

Her fingers tighten slightly and he realises she wasn't kidding when she said she didn't want to hurt him. She has an unexpectedly strong hold and his hands grip at her hips, hoping to god that she won't kill him.

"Enough air?" she pants.

"Yes," he gasps.

He sees spots in front of his eyes as her lips part and her head tosses back. She's so beautiful and he's hungry to see her like this every day for the rest of his life. Unfortunately his body betrays him and he climaxes much sooner than he'd originally wanted to.

"Sorry," he mumbles breathlessly, absolutely embarrassed that he was only able to last fifteen minutes.

She falls off him to his right side, slumping onto the mattress. "No problem. Next time I'll go easier on you."

He reaches out and pulls her close, her back to his chest. They're both sweaty and sticky and for some reason Olivia is absolutely rigid in his arms.

"What are you doing?" she asks and he detects a bit of panic in her voice; it's all right though, he likes the sound of panic.

"Oh…did you not want to cuddle?"

"We don't have to," she offers hopefully.

He likes this, though. "I'm just used to it. Besides, you feel good."

"Tired?" she asks curiously.

"It's been a busy night."

She seems to agree and relaxes against him. He realises he loves her and decides to admit his deepest darkest secrets to her because they are two of a kind.

"I want children," he whispers into her ear.

"Okay," she murmurs back.

"And I want to give you a big house with a nice car…" he continues.

"And the kids will go to private school…" she adds, her words trailing into a yawn.

"And we'll retire to Florida…"

At this she turns around to look at him. "_Florida_?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Somewhere else?"

She lies back down and mumbles, "Florida is too hot with too many hurricanes."

He pulls her close to him once more. "Fine, we'll figure something else out in the morning."

"Night," she murmurs, settling back against him.

He kisses the back of her neck and closed his eyes.


	2. TWO

The three agents sit across from the two serial killers, Farnsworth the only one with a notepad to jot down any observations she has. The room is quiet, as though everyone is holding their breath to see who will speak first.

"I've been waiting a long time for this day," Agent Scott finally says, his voice low and angry.

Mr Bishop spares him a glance. "And what day is that?"

"The day I lock you sickos away."

The Bishops look hardly impressed, their attention already being lost. Agent Farnsworth has talked to many serial killers but all of them were already in prison—these freshly caught specimens absolutely fascinate her and she wants to get as much information from them as she can.

"How did the two of you meet?"

Their eyes shift over to her and their body chemistry suggests ease and interest in her. She gives them a hopeful smile and instantly their demeanor shifts to one of a conversation between old friends.

Mr Bishop adjusts his glasses. "I'm a chemistry professor at MIT and 2008 was my first year to teach a 101 class."

Mrs Bishop gives her a courteous smile. "I was a working as a private investigator and I was hoping to get some more insight into a case I was working, which involved a suspected methlab. I thought that if I brushed up on my chemistry it would help."

Mr Bishop smiles at his wife. "It was love at first sight—I'd never seen anyone look so lovely in a suit."

"He was very charming," she replies.

Agent Francis, who sits in the middle, is casually leaned back in his chair, not making eye contact as he flips through their FBI files. "Mrs Bishop, it says here that you once tried to join the FBI but failed the psych exam."

Mrs Bishop smile fades slightly. "Yes, that's true."

"What does that have to do with anything?" the professor snaps.

Agent Francis shrugs. "I find it curious that you decided to stay in the field of criminal prosecution."

Her eyes are light blue, but they seem dark and soulless. "The world is full of bad people, Agent Francis."

Francis narrows his eyes. "And you're two of the worst."

* * *

Rachel sulks in her seat at the reception's bridal party table. She's one of the only people not out dancing to the upbeat music while the guests laugh and have a good time.

No, she's sitting here slouched in an eight hundred dollar bride's maid dress (that Liv paid for), drinking too much red wine while thinking unhappy thoughts. This is no doubt the most beautiful wedding she's ever been to, none of that cheesy Las Vegas wedding shit that everyone else did. Liv has on a beautiful custom made wedding dress that looks like it belongs in a Disney film and her now-husband Peter is wearing a tuxedo—Rach often wishes that her ex-husband Gregg had worn a tux to their wedding. They'd had a Las Vegas wedding.

She glanced out to the dance floor where Ella was dancing with Peter; her little barefeet stand on his, smudging black leather with a mirror shine. He's so careful with her and she shrieks happily with laughter as he moves them quickly to the music. Peter's going to be a good dad, Rach can tell.

Liv doesn't _deserve_ a man as good as him. For years she'd dated women and while Rach is glad her sister isn't a lesbian any more—it's so gross—she can't understand how she was able to snag someone like Peter Bishop. How could someone who was a dyke since high school get a man so handsome, so smart, so wealthy, for that matter?

She gives her big sister a bitter glare. Liv, who's dancing with Peter's godfather, sparkles in the soft light of the hotel's ballroom, smiling as she chats amicably. Liv was such a weirdo in high school. She had no friends and never even tried to make any—everyone in school had called her Han, as in 'Solo'. Rach cringed slightly, remembering how embarrassing it had been to have such a loser for an older sister. She'd never had hobbies, no life. She never partied, never went to football games, didn't like going to the movies, wasn't normal in any sense of the word. Shit, she hadn't even wanted to be a cheerleader!

It's not fair! It's not fair that Liv's getting the perfect life—Rachel is the one that deserves it! She's the one who was homecoming AND prom queen in high school! She's the one who wears short skirts and lowcut tops! She's the one who knows how to pick a guy up at a bar! She's the one who's normal.

Liv has a perfect husband, while Rach's the one in the middle of a nasty custody battle with Gregg. Liv has a huge house in a gated community, while Rach's the one who's sharing a rundown studio apartment with her four-year-old daughter. Liv drives fancy cars that eat gas, while Rach's the one who has to ride the buses that smell like piss. Liv makes a six-figure salary, while Rach's the one still on unemployment because she doesn't have enough selling experience to be hired by any of the local realtors.

Rachel sulks in her seat at the reception's bridal party table. She's one of the only people not out dancing to the upbeat music while the guests laugh and have a good time.


	3. THREE

Agent Scott seems too disgusted to talk with their killers and Agent Francis doesn't seem sure what to say, so it leaves Agent Farnsworth with the sole duty of speaking. She has an assortment of files with her, ones that she believes are important to have so she can gauge the two's personalities. They contain horrible pictures, ones that keep her up at night while Claire sleeps peacefully beside her. She hates thinking about these ugly things, but it's her job and she's already gained a good standing with Mr and Mrs Bishop.

"We're trying to pin down the exact number of people you murdered," Agent Farnsworth says, looking between them.

"Mmm." Mrs Bishop studies her impeccable manicure

Farnsworth asks hopefully, "Want to give us a number?"

Mr Bishop gives her a bored look. "Not really."

"Doctors, scientists, assistants… the two of you made quite a list." Agent Farnsworth looks over the official roster of victims, fighting back a shudder over the amount of names. "Ms Nina Sharp of Massive Dynamic was probably your most notable victim."

"High profile," Mrs Bishop agrees.

"But the thing that interests me is how you killed Dr Bell. Strangulation. It matched one other homicide here in Massachusetts, almost three years before his."

"I'm sure many people are strangled in this state," the woman coolly insists.

"But not by a woman." Farnsworth pushes the open file that shows the crime scene photos of the dead scientist across the table. "In fact, this matches the Co-Ed Killer's M.O. perfectly. Not only that, but it happened the night of your wedding. It shows here you and your husband were interviewed the morning you were supposed to leave for your honeymoon. You killed him, didn't you?"

Mrs Bishop's eyes don't leave hers as a large devilish smile crosses her face.

* * *

Liv sits in the club on the edge of campus, pretending to drink something fruity and candy pink as she watches the girls out on the dance floor. Her hand goes up again for the slightest of moments to make sure her dark brown wig is still in place as she finally spots a young woman with potential. This girl screams lesbian and desperation which is exactly what Liv wants. She has to be patient and her eyes glance up to a clock above the club's exit to make sure she's still on schedule.

The fingertips to her right hand are covered with bandages to cover her prints and she knows she'll have to wipe off her lipmark off the glass so she doesn't leave DNA behind.

The girl comes up to her, her chest pushed out. "Hi."

"Hello," Liv says, making her lips give a coy smile.

The girl sits down next to her, one of her hands resting on Liv's thigh. "You've been staring at me."

Liv hates the ones who are overly confident. "Who wouldn't?"

The girl tells Liv her name and Liv tells her she's Nick, short for Nicky. Liv had had a summer camp acquaintance named Nick Lane and she's been using it as her alias _forever_. Liv buys drinks for her new toy, flirting and getting her drunk on poorly made mojitos and too-sweet cosmos. It isn't long before they're deciding to leave together and they stumble out of the dark, loud, pulsing club.

The night air is cool and soothing, quiet save the occasional sound of traffic in the distance. Liv's drunk companion stumbles slightly as they cross the empty campus green and Liv knows this is a perfect place to get rid of her. She waits until they get closer to a patch of leafy bushes and spots a series of large rocks lining the topiaries.

Liv bends down and begins to play with her shoelace, setting her handbag safely on the ground. "Hold on, I need to tie my shoe."

The girl giggles and nods, playing with her hair and Liv points off ahead of them, feigning concern. "What's that over there?"

The girl turns around Liv stands up quickly and in one swift movement, brings one of the large stones down on the girl's skull. The girl crumples to the ground and Liv quickly straddles her chest, wrapping her fingers around the girl's neck. She's always had strong hands and the smallest movement in the thyroid's cartilage means it's cracked. Her nipples harden as she increases the pressure, crushing the windpipe, restricting the airflow.

These sluts all look the same beneath her, they all look like Mom. Whores, all of them! She hates these women—nasty, horrible, opening their legs up for anyone, the ones that become teenage mothers and force their kids into a shit life just like Mom did, _I hate you_, cheap—

The girl wakes up at the last minute and Liv can't help but smile as she claws weakly at her long-sleeved shirt, unable to get a grip on her. Her face is a dark purple and her eyes are bulging. It's almost over and Liv slams her head against the back of the lawn again. The woman gives one last fight for freedom, grabbing onto the brown wig Liv wears, yanking at it so that it hangs lopsided from Liv's head.

Now it lies motionless on the ground, finally dead, and Liv is fast to find her pocketknife, cutting the clothes of its body until it's naked. She finds the spray bottle of industrial bleach in her handbag and begins to quickly spray the body down to remove all trace evidence she may have accidentally left behind. Its skin glistens in the moonlight like dew and she puts her supplies back in her shoulder bag as well as the clothes and the wig, taking a moment to stand back and observe her work. This is definitely one of her best so far.


	4. FOUR

More questions, simple ones confirming that yes, the Bishops live at 1791 Orange Blossom Lane in The Heights, and yes, he drove a black Mercedes while she used rental cars from AVIS. This are questions that bore everyone in the room, but for the sake of formality, they have to be asked. However, it's revealed that Mrs Bishop seems to be the one who talks as a defensive mechanism while her husband watches silently, monitoring.

Farnsworth glances over a note she'd written down before she entered the interrogation room and decides it's time to start asking the questions she really wants to. She clears her throat and looks back up at the two monsters in front of her.

"There was quite a pause between the 2009 murders and the 2012. You know, some people thought that the killer had either died, moved out of the area or was put in prison for unrelated crimes."

The blonde laughs and smiles over at her husband fondly. "No, nothing like that. In 2009 we found out we expecting Peter's first child. It meant we couldn't go out and have our fun."

"You couldn't just hire a baby sitter?" Agent Francis inquires.

Mr Bishop rolls his eyes dramatically. "No. We wouldn't have an alibi that way."

"I wouldn't want some stranger holding Peter's baby," his wife adds with a frown.

Farnsworth writes this down, including the peculiar way Mrs Bishop had worded it. "So the 2012 murders. Your child would have been two?"

"Two and half years exact on the night of our comeback."

"Did you leave the baby with a sitter then?"

"No, we brought her along. Peter went up to the apartment while the baby and I waited in the car."

The hair on the back of Agent Farnsworth neck stands up. "There was another break—almost a year."

Mrs Bishop gives a content sigh. "I was pregnant with the twins. Once they were born and I'd recovered a bit, my sister was able to baby-sit them while we went out on our dates."

Agent Farnsworth looks back down at her notes, something nagging at her. "Three times you've referred to them as 'Peter's children' and not your own. Why?"

Mr Bishop is quick to explain his wife's strange way of talking about their family. "She didn't want kids and I did."

Mrs Bishop nods. "I was simply willing to give them to him."

"Don't you have an emotional attachment to them?" Agent Farnsworth blurts out in shock and immediately she realizes she's made a mistake.

Mrs Bishop looks insulted. "Of course I do! They're _Peter's_!"

"Olivia is a great mother. In fact, I don't believe that any woman is as capable of raising my children as she is," Mr Bishop snarls, defending his mate as he glares at her.

Agent Scott looks just as aggressive as the serial killers sitting across from them. "She's a sociopath, _genius_. She sees your children as objects and the only reason she puts up with them is because they belong to you."

Both killers turn away from her and Scott which makes Farnsworth sigh, realising she's lost any respect that they might have had. It's up to Agent Francis now and Farnsworth leans back in her chair, stretching the crick in her neck as she watches Mrs Bishop fume and Mr Bishop uses his handcuffed hands to rub at one of her shoulders.

Agent Francis seems to take this as his opportunity to get in good terms with the sociopaths. "What are your children's names?"

Mrs Bishop regains her composure quickly. "Well, there's the oldest, Olive."

Mr Bishop beams at his wife. "After her beautiful mother."

"And the twins are Matthæus and Edwardus," the mother continues. "And the youngest is Honesta. Two girls, two boys."

"The last three have Latinized names," Agent Farnsworth observes.

The professor lifts his wife's handcuffed hands to his mouth and kisses the back of the right, but they still only talk to Agent Francis. "We were on a dead language kick for a while."

"Why is your little girl named 'Honesty'?" Agent Francis asks in his gravelly voice.

"Because that's what our marriage is based on." Mrs Bishop turns her adoring gaze to the man sitting next to her. "There are no secrets between us."

Mr Bishop smiles at her, still holding her hands in his. "I love you, Liv."

"I love you, too, Peter."

* * *

On their first date, which wasn't actually intended to be a date, Peter had arrived at Olivia's office on his day off. He's checked the address twice and taken two buses to get here and just like movies, she has a frosted glass door with her name, 'Olivia Dunham, Private Investigations', etched in black. He knocks hesitantly, feeling silly for involving himself like this with another person, knowing full and well that he could be setting himself up for major disappointment.

"Come in," Olivia's flat voice commands from behind the door.

He cracks open the door and leans his head in. She's sitting at her desk, writing something in a manila folder, but doesn't look up as she starts talking to him.

"You're one minute and fifteen seconds late by the atomic clock. Put the food over there—" she points to low bookcase next to the right of the door, "and take the money." She points to the empty desk to the left. "You will not get a tip."

"Good thing I wasn't expecting one," he says as he steps into the office.

She glances up and looks startled when she sees him.

"Professor Bishop," she greets, jumping to her feet and offering out her hand. "Something I can help you with?"

He shakes her hand courteously and takes a seat in one of the two chairs in front of her desk. "I noticed yesterday you were interested in the discussion about the dangers of improper ventilation during labwork. Does it have anything to do with the case you're working on?"

She sits back down and shuts the file she was working on. "A client of mine believes her son is caught up with cocaine dealers. Understanding the science of the business is important."

"I brought you something that might help." He reveals the papers he brought over with him, realising his sweaty palm had cause the top page to warp slightly in the shape of his hand.

"How to Be a Dope Dealer, by Peter Bishop." She looks back up at him, the slightest quirk on her lips. "Did you make this for me?"

He shrugs casually, almost afraid to meet her eyes. "I may have typed it up last night."

She flips through it. "Two-hundred and eighty-six pages."

He gives her a charming smile. "I'm a fast typer."

"It's eleven forty-five and whatever cretin that has my sandwich hasn't shown up. Would you like to take me out to lunch?" she asks curiously.

He nods. "Very much. We'll have to take your car—I rode the bus over."

"Hold on while I write a note."

She jots something down and attaches a little piece of tape to the top of it before grabbing her purse and hurrying to put the paper on the front door. He leans in to read it and laughs at what it says.

'_You were late. I wasn't going to wait for the sandwich. You can explain to your manager why you aren't getting paid.'_

"You're very blunt," he calls out as he follows her out the front door of the building.

"I've always been blunt," she states as they walk side by side down the sidewalk.

"It's refreshing," he admires.

They approach a brown SUV and he notices the rental license plate frame, wondering if she simply switches out her vehicles for her current cases' needs or if her real car is simply in the shop.

The car alarm chirps as it unlocks as she clicks the key remote and he climbs inside, buckling up. She starts up the car and the speakers begin to blare something loud and in German. He reaches over to the stereo system and turns down the music.

"Opera fan?"

She nods as she pulls out into the street. "I like the dark stuff that ends up everyone dead. This is _'Tristan und Isolde'_."

"Oh, so I guess you've never been a Britney Spears fan?"

She glances over at him, her eyes widening slightly as she stumbles over her words. "Are…you?"

"Hell no! I was just kidding." He glances at the cd cases she has resting between the front seats. "They're all opera."

She shrugs. "I don't like music. Just opera."

"I don't think I've ever met someone who didn't like music." He looks over her black and white ensemble and teases, "Next you're probably going to tell me you don't like colour."

"I don't."

"So what do you like?"

She's hesitant, as though she's choosing her words _very_ carefully. "I like opera."

"And?" he coaxes.

"Working."

He nods. "What else?"

"You," she admits quietly.

"Me?"

She nods and there's a slight tinge of colour to her cheeks. "You're smart and you seem to like me, too."

"I do." He's flattered and a little speechless, though he's quick to recover. "So you like opera, working, and me. Is there anything else?"

"Yes."

"Keeping it secret?"

She gives him a slight smile. "For now."

"You're not a social person, are you?"

"Not really. I've talked more to you today than I have all week." She pulls the SUV over and points to the apartment building next to them. "I have to stop at my apartment first. We're here. You don't have to wait in the car."

Peter has to admit he's very curious what her home looks like, so he follows her up three flights of stairs to a spacious apartment that overlooks the city. It's composed of dark woods and brushed steel, making him think of a combination between a library and a hospital. There is a certain level of sterilization and unwelcoming atmosphere in this place and he waits in her kitchen as she hurries into a side room. From here, he can see her large canopy bed, shrouded in the dark.

He pauses by her refrigerator and studies The Office magnets that have been carefully arranged on the brushed steel surface of the freezer door. Olivia returns from her bedroom and he points to the magnets.

"Did you catch last night's episode? My TV finally bit it—"

"I don't watch it," she interrupts. He looks at her, absolutely confused while her face becomes contemplative, chewing at the inside of her cheek, and she begins an explanation. "When I was in high school, my sister complained that my bedroom had no personality, so I drove to Target and bought posters to put on the walls. I thought that I'd escaped having to do it once I bought my own place, but when my sister and her daughter Ella came to stay for Christmas, she said that my apartment seemed soulless and impersonal. Once again, I drove to Target and found these. I didn't want anything to clutter my space, so I felt refrigerator magnets were a compromise I was willing to make." She cocks her head slightly. "Is that weird?"

"Very, but I like it." He smiles at her and offers out his arm. "Ready to go?"

She stares at his offered arm and walks past him. "Yes."

As he follows her out of the apartment, making sure to lock the door behind him, he observes out loud, "You like organisation. You like control of your personal space and I'm betting it's difficult for you to accept intruders into your territory."

She glances back at him as she starts down the stairs, her lips quirked once more. "So you're a psychiatrist now."

"I've had my share of abnormal psych classes."

She gives a slight chuckle. "I bet everyone who knows me would be shocked to see me actually spending social time with another person. My sister would probably think she was in some sort of crazy parallel universe. And I didn't mind letting you into my apartment. You weren't touching anything and you stayed in the same place the whole time."

"I hate people touching my things too. My father was exceptionally bad at respecting my personal—" He catches himself before he says anything else, mumbling, "Well, that's a story for another time."

Once at the little café he wants to impress her with, they order lunch and find a seat at a small table next to the windows. As she starts eating her ham and cheese sandwich, he wonders who she really is, if he's actually seeing that little spark of something else that burns inside him.

"Now I want you to tell me what you don't like. So far I know you don't like 'The Office', colour, music, and people being late," he says before crunching on a potato chip.

"I don't like being around people, I don't like dogs or cats, I don't like rodents, ketchup, and parents who don't take care of their children," she answers coolly.

He raises an eyebrow. "If you don't like being around people, then why did you want to go to lunch with me?"

"I told you, I like you because you're clever." She looks down at the tabletop for a moment then meets his eyes once again. "You also have nice hands. They look strong."

He feels his heart race. "They are."

There was a loud, violent noise outside and both turned to look out the window. It appeared there had been a head on collision on the street and from their seats it was apparent the passenger in the white SUV has blood running down the front of their face while the driver of the brown car is crying out for help. People from the sidewalk, other cars, and even the café are running out to help.

"This is really good potato salad," Olivia observes, drawing his attention back to her.

She doesn't care about the seriously hurt people outside and he can't help but smile. Anyone else would have been concerned about the people in the accident but she isn't, and honestly, he's not the kind of person who cares either.

"I told you that you'd like the food here." He moves his hand next to hers, not touching, but definitely implying he wants to be close. "What are you doing for dinner tonight?"


	5. FIVE

It's quiet in the interrogation room and Agent Farnsworth tries to once again to rein the killers back into talking with her not wanting to lose her opportunity of a lifetime. People would kill for this privilege and she knows that she already has enough information for a book from this sitting alone. She makes a mental note to contact her cousin who works at Harper Collins once she gets off work to get that wheel turning.

"I didn't mean to insult you earlier, Mrs Bishop," she says humbly but the sociopaths ignore her.

"Enough of this shit." Scott snarls, standing up. "We're going to go investigate your house. Anything in particular we should look for?"

Mrs Bishop tilts her head to the side slightly as she looks up at him. "Do you think you could turn my crock pot off? I was cooking a rice pilaf for dinner…"

* * *

"Honey, I'm home!" Peter calls out as he enters the house on Orange Blossom Lane; he's come home early and the house is silent, save for a muffled noise in the garage which he pursues. "Where are—oh."

On the floor of the garage is a body and his wife is kneeling over it. She gives him a beaming smile as she looks up to him.

"Hi, sweetheart. Want me to get you a beer?"

"Maybe after you…" he trails off, gesturing at the body on the cement.

"Oh, I caught this prowling around in the backyard and I caught it the back of the neck with a shovel. I severed its spinal cord." She smiles at his sheepishly.

Peter glances own at the small embroidered logo on the dead man's blue shirt. "I think he's a meter reader."

"Yeah. So I'm trying to get everything set up so I can get rid of it. But now I need to figure out how…" She stands up off the floor. "You want that beer?"

"Sure." Peter smiles; he thinks it's cute that Olivia refers to anything dead as 'it'. "Any ideas?"

She looks contemplative for a moment as she goes to the refrigerator in the garage and retrieve him bottle of beer. "Well, I thought tonight we could bury it back out in the rose garden, but then I realised that wouldn't do us any good in the long run."

"And a wood chipper would look suspicious," he muses as he accepts the cold bottle and takes a drink.

"I suppose we could take his body out to the woods. Hold on!" she snaps her fingers and gives him an excited smile. "I know a guy in the mob named Big Eddie and he specialises in body disposal. Want to help me carry it to the trunk?"

He sets his beer down and lifts the body up by the man's underarms while his wife takes hold of the man's ankles as they carry him off to the trunk of this week's rented SUV.

"So did you want to have him get rid of this guy?" Peter asks.

She shakes her head as she presses the car remote's button to have the trunk open on it's own. "No, I thought I would set Big Eddie up so it would look like he was trying to dump this in the bay. I know his MO, so this works to my advantage."

They swing the body into the trunk and quickly shut it twice, accidentally catching the arm the first time.

"Oh baby, I love you so much," he exclaims and it's true—she's practically human when it comes to dealing with a dead body.

"I love you, too," she replies devotedly. "You know, the kids don't come home for another forty-five minutes."

Peter laughs and pushes her back against the tan SUV, navigating their bodies around the side of the vehicle. "Good, because you've been a _naughty_ girl."

"Have I?" she asks breathlessly, directing his hands up around her neck while she opens the back door of the SUV.

They start to kiss passionately and he can tell she wants to be pushed onto the backseat; his hands abandon her neck for the slightest moment to put her up on the vehicle's leather upholstery. They continue kissing hungrily and she works at removing her trousers and panties, the sound of one of her flats falling to the concrete floor of the garage wall. Her hands unzip his fly and he moves between her legs, his hands repositioning themselves around her neck. Soon the SUV is rocking back in forth and she giggles slightly as he starts throttling her. While she no doubt is better than him at this, he can get the job done.

The humming in his head starts, slowly and he tries to ignore it; he's busy right now with his wife and he doesn't want his father involved in the matter but the whispering voice of the incarcerated scientist begins telling him what to do.

"_Strangle her!"_ his father orders and he really doesn't want to, but this devil's tongue in his ear won't go away so he tightens his grip around her throat.

She looks startled, but responds positively, moaning and arching underneath him. This isn't usually the kind of thing that excites him, but he loves seeing how turned on she is and she's his wife after all, so he's only happy if she's happy.

"Ooh, I love my alpha male," she hisses and he wraps his hands around her throat tighter.

"_Strangle her! She if she's strong enough to survive!"_ his father commands angrily and Peter growls aggressively.

She starts coughing, her hands tightly grasping at his wrists as her face turns red. He wonders if she's ready to die, if she wants to see the other side. He can tell she's ready to black out, that there isn't enough oxygen in her to keep her going. The humming in his head is loud, a deafening roar. He needs to kill, he's ready, and _oh god,_ she's so right, it's better to involve death in sex—

She reaches up and strikes him in the face, startling him enough to cause him to lose his grip on her. She cups his face and pulls him down, her tongue exploring his mouth. She tastes sharp, like iron and he breaks from her to see the blood from his broken nose smeared across her mouth and the tip of her nose, staining her teeth and salvia rusty orange.

She's gasping for air as he finishes inside her, collapsing weakly on top of her.

"You look great," he whispers as he strokes her hair.

"You left bruises?" she asks hoarsely, sounding so hopeful.

He lifts his head slightly to look at her neck, which is beginning to darken. "Of course."

She smiles at him and they share another kiss. "You look great, too."


	6. SIX

Agent Francis has developed a nervous tic over the years that involved fretting over the safety on his gun; some part of him has become convinced it would jam in a moment of crisis and he would die…no, no, he shouldn't be thinking like this. Those two psychos are securely locked up right now and he along with Agent Scott and Agent Farnsworth can safely investigate the Bishop's household.

The house has been yellow taped as a crime scene, wrapped around the white picket fence and part of the street to keep the onlookers at a distance. Rachel Dunham, the younger sister of Mrs Bishop waits outside the front gate of the property her cheeks tearstained as she clutches at herself; she's sniffling pitifully as a junior agent tries to talk to her. The three agents walk past her, carrying their crime scene supply boxes. The air is still and the slightest undercurrent of voices crackles like a building thunderstorm. Neighbors, police officers, the Heights security officers, all of them want to see what's happening and oh the Bishops are the pillars of the community, what's going on here?!

Agent Francis takes a deep breath as he answers the house and then exhales, disappointed. To be honest, he'd secretly been hoping and expecting that as he took his first look at the home, he'd be able to dramatically announce it as _'the Bishop House of Horrors'_, but there isn't nothing horrifying or even slightly unusual about this house. No, it's just an ordinary, two-story house. It's a little lavish with the guesthouse in the back for Rachel Dunham and her daughter to live in, but it has the same old boring, expected stuff any house would have. The three agents split up: Scott takes the master bedroom, Farnsworth takes the garage, and he takes the living room and kitchen.

The kitchen smells heavenly and Francis hurries over to turn off the crock pot where just as Mrs Bishop said, there's rice pilaf cooking. He wonders for a moment if Mrs Bishop enjoys cooking for her family or if it's just part of the Mask of Sanity she wears. The calendar hanging next to the refrigerator features painted roosters and names for little playdates are neatly printed in the boxes that represent the days of the month.

There's a knock on the front doorway and a junior agent leans his head in.

"Agent Francis?" the young man asks.

He moves over to the front door. "Yes?"

The agent holds out an envelope and box. "A UPS guy delivered these two packages for this residence."

"Hey John! Astrid! Some packages just arrived," he calls out and quickly he's joined by the other agents.

"Slowly, slowly," John instructs as they open the box.

Farnsworth lifts the small note on the top of the second box and reads the note aloud. "Part two of your gift. Happy Thursday, sweetheart."

Francis' eyes widen slightly. "It's a mandolin."

"A what?" Scott asks, studying the bright picture on the box.

"It's what you use to make thin slices of vegetables and fruit," Farnsworth explains.

"Oh." Scott looks less then impressed and picks up the small envelope, opening it. He retrieves a small white paper box from inside the envelope and passes it over Farnsworth while he reads the note that came with it. "Because you truly have that x factor, babe."

"X factor?" Francis echoes.

Agent Farnsworth noticeably blanches as she takes a peek in the box, quickly shutting it. "It's what the BTK killer referred to when he was on trial. He said that that was the one thing that separated him from normal people. Obviously, they thought it was a joke."

Scott's surly look returns and he turns back towards the stairs. "Bag it. We can use it at trial."

Farnsworth hands the small box back to him and as she returns to the garage he lifts the top to see what was inside. A pair of small novelty earrings that look like bloody butcher knives. They really don't strike Agent Francis as something that Mrs Bishop would wear, but obviously this Thursday gift is mostly for laughs.

Francis wanders into the living room, admiring the furniture and artwork decorating the space. The Bishops have a large television and many movies, most of them for children and the rest consisting of Nova documentaries. He notices the DVD player has accidentally been left on pause, so he presses play. Almost immediately the large television screen is filled with images from a family vacation at the beach. Two toddler twins hold onto Mrs Bishop's hands while a slightly older girl dances in the surf, squealing every time the waves hit her ankles.

"_Look this way, Olive!"_ Mr Bishop's voice calls out.

"_The water's cold!"_ the little girl protests.

Mrs Bishop points to small birds running in the sand. "Honey, look at the sandpipers!"

The scene changed to a birthday party at a restaurant and Mrs Bishop's standing over an iced cake, flanked by her brood as she blows the candles out.

Footage of their children scampering around the yard, Mr Bishop sitting on the couch reading to a blonde infant, Olive in a school play as a butterfly, another birthday party, more children running around, Mr Bishop's smiling face, Mrs Bishop's smiling face…

It all becomes a big blur of the all-American dream and Agent Francis feels nauseous, having to look away. Was any of it real? Was all of it a sham? Were they following the motions to maintain the appearance of a normal life?

* * *

Olivia has been restless for a while now. Peter sometimes catches her staring out their kitchen window, her hands holding her swollen belly as she gives a forlorn sigh. She misses the fun they had together on dark nights in strangers' homes and he does too, but it's not safe for her to run around killing and he can't bare to do the murders without her.

Peter is reminded of when he was a child and he'd visit the Chariot Equestrian Centre with that woman with the red hair. She had once told him that horses and other animals needed to feel comfortable with him before they'd allow him to get close. She explained that some horses would eat immediately out of his hand, but others wouldn't. _Patience is very important with any animal,_ she had said gently, _sometimes you just have to wait._ Sometimes he feels like Liv isn't really a human, but some feral part of nature that simply looks like one, and he has learned that he just has to play the waiting game with his beloved.

And of course it's worth it. Her hatred for television means that he never has to find compromise on what they watch for the evening and shyly, she's started doing her paperwork on the couch next to him while he watches The Office reruns. Slowly he's coaxed her to him, to accept sharing a space with him, to accept sharing a life with him.

When they were first engaged, she would sometimes sleep the night in her home office on the day bed, but it's been almost five months since she last did that. She's also been the one to shy away from physical contact, though since becoming pregnant, she seems more than willing to take advantage of the backrubs he offers. Things in both of their worlds are changing, but he knows if they just wait it out, everything will return to the way they want it.

"Just be patient, sweetheart," he comforts and she turns to him. "We'll have our fun soon enough."


	7. SE7EN

Agent Scott hands over a tissue to the blonde woman he's talking to. "I really appreciate you talking to me, Ms Dunham."

Rachel Dunham sniffles, her eyes lowered slightly and her lips pouted, looking depressed that she hasn't been allowed back on the property to collect her Blackberry. It appears that Ms Dunham and her daughter (whom is spending the week at her father's) are comfortably supported by the Bishops. Dunham, who is Mrs Bishop's younger sister, is pretty and the polar opposite of the serial killer locked away at the FBI.

"Are you sure they did that? All that nasty stuff?" Dunham asks, wiping her nose with the tissue.

He nods. "They've confessed."

"I knew it was just too good to be true. Everyone thought they had a fairytale marriage, but I knew. I knew it!" Dunham's face changes from miserable to gleeful as she wipes her nose again. "She's still a lesbian, isn't she?"

Scott makes a face. "No, Ms Dunham. Mr and Mrs Bishop are happily married."

Ms Dunham looks crestfallen. "You know I always wondered what it was that Peter saw in Liv. Guess now I know."

* * *

Officer Stanford Harris crouches over the body, looking at the frozen look of horror on the young woman's face. They'd already ID'd her as Emily Kramer, a college student who'd left a night club near campus last night and had never made it home. It's barely sunup and two sophomores had come across her as they did their early morning jog. Right now they're sitting with Officer Broyles wrapped in blankets and drinking hot coffee as they recount how they found her.

Harris has never dealt with a serial killer before but to his dismay, this is beginning to look like a victim of the Co-Ed Killer. He sighs, realising that the psycho has finally come to his city. LA, Tampa, Dallas, Seattle, and now here in Milford, Massachusetts. The Co-ed Killer has never hit the same city twice, but he's not an idiot—this matches all the other victims he's seen on the news. Hell, the Dallas police department had sent out a memo with details asking if anyone had cold cases that matched theirs. He'd glanced over the request and smirked—like a serial killer would come here.

The body is naked and bleached, the clothes missing. Like every other girl, the eyes are wide open and the minute vessels are burst. Her skin is wet from where the early morning sprinklers came on and a heavy rock lies nearby. _Probably the murder weapon,_ he speculates, noting how watered down the blood on the grass is. There are heavy bruises around the neck, a hand pattern in black and dark purple. The killer had strong hands and even though the forensic experts claim the hand marks look like they're the size of a woman's, Harris can't seriously believe anyone woman could be this strong. _Maybe a body builder_, he decides, _or one of those lesbians, the ones with the big muscles._

Broyles is motioning for him to leave the body—it seems the coroner wants to move it. Harris sighs, standing up to return to his partner's side. _It can never just be an open and shut case, _he thinks sourly.


	8. EIGHT

Agent Farnsworth is compiling her report on the Bishops, hoping that this pot of coffee will get her through the night. It's been hardly a month since they were caught and Claire is asleep in bed already, leaving her alone at the kitchen table with her notes and dark thoughts.

_8.59pm_

"Mrs Bishop is a sexual sadist, one of three female serial killers classified as such. Previous girlfriends and boyfriends interviewed all agree that she was an aggressor during intercourse, very rarely taking a passive role

Mr Bishop does not seem to share these feelings. Previous girlfriends interviewed have all stated that all sexual relations with him leaned towards the conservative side."

_9.22pm_

"As determined by the FBI's Crime Classification Manual, Mrs Bishop is a 'mixed' serial killer, which means she shows the attributes of an organised and disorganised killer. I have also come to the conclusion that her crimes were mission oriented. When Mrs Bishop acted as the Co-Ed Killer, it is believed she was targeting women with loose morals. Mrs Bishop was born to a teenage mother who could not maintain a healthy relationship with men. I believe Mrs Bishop was metaphorically trying to kill her mother. The fact they were lesbians or bisexual had nothing to do with the murders—they were simply the easiest ones to lure away. Any woman who chose to follow her was immediately put in the position of becoming a victim. When Mrs Bishop worked alongside her husband in the Mad Scientist Murders, she felt she was duty bound to help him in his work, her desire to assist him with his calling.

Mr Bishop is an organised killer, his motive being power-control. He appears to be seeking dominance over the person who hurt him the most as a child, his father Dr Walter Bishop. Peter Bishop was used as a test subject by his father from the ages of three to ten, leaving him to feel helpless and out of control of his surroundings. When Dr Walter Bishop was locked away in St Claire's, Peter Bishop he was angry that his father was now out of his reach for revenge."

_10.04pm_

"Together, the Bishops are the classic example of an organised offender. They have friends, children, and the unique factor of being married to their partners. They also have high IQs, Mr Bishop's at 190 and Mrs Bishop's 122. Most organised offenders have IQs 123 or higher, but Mrs Bishop has pointed out that that test was taken back when she was 19, so we have offered to administer a new IQ test to her. She has agreed to it and when it is done, the new results will be recorded and attached to this case study."

_12.31pm_

"While Mr Bishop appears to take great satisfaction in his hand in the killings, Mrs Bishop does not. She does not seem interested in the media coverage of her victims, though we found numerous newspaper clippings following the Mad Scientist murders in Mr Bishop's effects."

* * *

They're in their bedroom, dressing for the day. Downstairs they can hear the sounds of Rach starting breakfast and down the hall they can hear the children stirring. Ella is off at her father's for the week, and while Olivia thinks her niece is a well behaved and good girl, she also enjoys having one less person in the house. Sometimes she feels so stifled and even though she feels a certain amount of joy watching the Bishop biological heirs running around and worshiping her as the matriarchal goddess, she craves her space and her control.

And at the moment, her darling husband is attempting to force his opinions on her, which is not putting her in a good mood.

"I just wish you'd carry a gun," Peter states as he works on properly knotting his tie.

She sits on the edge of the bed, pulling her dress socks on. "I'm fine with my stun gun."

"Yes, but a gun is much more efficient. I think you'd do better if you had one."

"It's also a lot of paperwork."

"You don't have a criminal record," he says quite pointedly.

"I mean if I shoot someone."

"I've read that a stun gun won't stop a person who's on drugs." He pausing in his tie tying and looks at her. "I read it, Liv. In a report."

She can't deny that, but she's not going to concede, which means she has to play the offspring card. "Honey, guns are dangerous. There are children in the house!"

He throws up his hands dramatically. "We'll get a gun safe!"

"And when someone breaks in? What do I do then? Ask them to wait until I get it out?" she says snippily. "I am more than happy with my taser."

"That's because you like the way it makes them scream," he snaps.

"It's also because I like the smell of burning skin." Her smile fades. "Honey, I'm not arguing about this. I'm not carrying a gun."

He shakes his head. "My beloved, I'm going to go out and buy you one after work. I need you to be safe."

Her eyes narrow. "I refuse to allow it in the house."

"I don't care."

She grips her other sock hard, wringing it between her strong fingers and lets out a frustrated noise. "Ooh! I'm so mad at you, I could just, _just_—"

"Kill me?" Peter gives her a broad grin as he finishes her sentence.

"Yes!" she laughed.

She puts her other sock on and goes over to him; they kiss each other on the lips and Olivia allows herself to be held for a moment.

"You wouldn't kill me. I'm too charming," he says smugly.

"Mmmm. I suppose that's true." She lets him rub the tip of his nose against hers before she purrs, "You're also the only one who knows how to satisfy me."

"I'm sorry, baby, but if you wanted to do something you should have thought about that before everyone was up. I don't want anyone else to know what I want to do to you," he growls, baring his teeth at her.

She swats at his backside with the morning's paper and dodges his return strike to go back to the mirror and check her reflection again. That's something about herself she's never denied—she is a narcissist. She is the Mona Lisa and Peter is the gilt frame that surrounds her, highlighting and bringing out all her best attributes. The only time she's ever displayed a sense of humour that wasn't morbid was when she bought her Peter a shirt that says 'I'm My Wife's Arm Candy', and to be honest it was true—he was the best accessory she'd ever had.

There's no real definition of what 'love' is, but Olivia is one hundred percent confident that what she feels for her husband is just that. He's the only person in her life that she's ever been loyal to and that has to mean something. He's the man who had read quantum mechanic theories to all the children that had grown inside of her, whispering in her ear that he wanted to start their education early, that she would bare him geniuses. He's the man who had went out and bought the largest conflict diamond he could find to slip on her ring finger, whispering in her ear that people were slaughtered to put this glory on hand, adornment for the temple that is her body. He's the man who makes extra buttery popcorn for them to snack on when they watch Pit Dernitz being eaten alive by lions or Budd Dwyer committing suicide in front of the press. He's the man she misses when he has to leave town for a conference and even though she still doesn't care for physical contact, the bed feels so big without him.

She has to suppose that he's what she'd consider her rock, the grounding force and inspiration to everything she does. It's still a baffling concept to her, these emotions and feelings she has for him, but she is willing to struggle with way her mind and body contradict one another for him. The way her heart pounds and her palms sweat, the way her pupils dilate and the breath seems to be knocked out of her lungs. These thoughts for him seem so foreign, the way something can be so sweet it makes one sick. It's a hunger for this man that makes her eyes water and her hands become fists and the world seems so much brighter—

He's still working on his tie, muttering to himself as though he's actually talking to another person, that he _is_ doing it the right way, why won't you shut up, you don't know how to make a Windsor knot either, and Olivia watches him in the reflection of her vanity mirror.

Sometimes she's wondered if she's even human, if she's a different race of being entirely, a more evolved creature. After all, the only pheromones she's ever been attracted to his and he's the same type of…_thing_ she is. His back is turned to her and she stalks him quietly until she's right behind him; her arms quickly snake around him and he lets out a startled cry, obviously thinking she's attempting to seduce him, but she simply presses her face against his neck. She breathes him in, a safe, warm smell composed of his shampoo, aftershave, and skin, the scent that is her husband, her mate, her other half.

"You okay, Livvy?" he asks, using the pet name that makes her close her eyes in contentment.

"I'm so glad you're mine," she whispers into his ear.

He body finally relaxes. All of her feelings for him are at the level of extreme—rage, obsession, fear—but they're all the passion thousands of years of evolution has made the human race capable of feeling and right now she feels so human for him.

"I'm glad to be yours, too," he finally murmurs back.


	9. NINE

It's the twenty-fifth anniversary of their capture and there have been countless books, documentaries, and papers written about the husband and wife killing team. Agent Scott is a retired and decorated agent, still making appearances on CNN as a criminal expert. Agent Francis died a few years after the Bishops were convicted—a gunfight when the safety on his gun stuck.

And she, Agent Farnsworth is watching the early morning news, feeling that coil of dread as they talk about a_ fifteenth_ murder that they suspect the New Boston Strangler committed. There's something so familiar, so terrifying, and she tries to forget about the pair of piercing blue eyes that burned into her during Mr and Mrs Bishop's trial. Farnsworth wonders if she should just pretend she doesn't see the connexion or if she should call the Bureau and tell them what she suspects.

But Claire's just come into the kitchen and Farnsworth is quick to change the channel. No, she's probably just seeing things, wanting to see things, and she should just keep her head down and keep writing her books about violent and dangerous offenders.

Olive Bishop reminds Farnsworth a lot of her mother…

* * *

The first time in her life she ever giggled was with Peter Bishop. He'd taken her out to one of the university's galas, which had involved a nice dinner, academic conversation, and dancing. Dancing recalled lessons the PE teacher gave them back in high school and even though Olivia had hated it at the time, she remembers every single move and they've paid off tonight. They make an elegant couple, she knows and can hear the way people are murmuring in hushed voices as they watch them dance to the hired orchestra's version of Plaisir D'Amour.

Together, Olivia and Peter find a pattern and rhythm and she smiles at him, absolutely content playing a normal person with him. He returns the smile, touching her cheek.

It's almost midnight when they finally excuse themselves and they take his car out to one of the fields around the airport, to lie in the grass, watching the jets taking off and landing above their heads. Olivia knows she's probably ruining her nice dress, but she's used to throwing out clothes that are easily ruined. She wonders if bodies have ever been left right where she's lying.

After a 747 comets across the sky, Peter ponders aloud, "If I could give you anything in the world, what would it be?"

_Happiness._

_Knowledge._

_A higher body count._

She turns her head back towards him and finds his hand. "You."


End file.
